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“Well, looks like we have someone who’s extremely unprepared for all the dangers you’re going to be facing. Looks like we’re gonna have to pair you off with Knight. You’re going to be on him for the rest.”
Rook Knight let out a pained sigh, while the walking incompetence of a man loudly proclaimed his indignation.
Director Connors continued as if completely unaware of the burden he’s imposing on Knight.
“If anything happens to JR, it’s gonna be your ass. And vice versa, JR.” He says, pointing in the other direction. “You make sure Rook Knight comes back in one piece.”
Rook Knight looked at the man sitting across from him. Dressed in a beer-stained tank, mustache completely overgrown, sunken eyes. It doesn’t take a genius to see that the man has let himself go. But especially considering how recent their first meeting was for Rook, what with the coma and all, the man was a husk of his former self. Something was missing in his previously lit, blazing blue eyes. Knight shook off that train of thought.
Rook strongly disliked the sleazebag in front of him. Cocky racer turned pony-murdering alcoholic. And that’s besides the more personal crimes he had committed against Rook. He was determined to set the nepo baby of racing straight, after uppercutting Victor’s balls out of his head.
Despite what others might believe, Knight held no resentment towards JR over his coma. He recognized that JR did not know the fraction of the stakes that night in Omaha, Nebraska. His subsequent 5 year coma was a punishment by Victor for his own snooping, rather than any loss against an internationally acclaimed racer.
However, that doesn’t mean that Rook did not want to set the record straight. He was Rook Knight. He never lost a single race. He didn’t participate often, only out of necessity for missions, but when he did, he drove with the precision and ruthlessness of a seasoned driver. Not many knew his name in the underground racing world, but those who did knew to fear and respect him.
That goes to say, that while he might not like JR Speed with all his cockiness and flaunting, the man could back up his bark with a mean bite. At least he could, 5 years ago. And no matter how much Rook hated admitting it, he respected the man for it.
Still doesn’t mean that he has to like the predicament he is now in: essentially stuck as a nanny for an underprepared, loud civilian on a deadly mission.
Whatever. He is Knight Rook. He handled a lot worse than a bitching man-child.
***
If he hears JR’s damned voice again, Rook is going to take his gun and finish the job Victor started himself.
“Wow, Knight. Can’t even come up with your own modifications for yer car? Pfft..”
The scars in Rook’s forehead can be reopened, no problem.
“Hey, Rook! Watch this.” JR exclaims as he speeds up to 100 mph, whips around, and drives back into the plane.
Rook wanted to beat the ego out of him. Rook wanted to beat himself up even more for actually being impressed by the trick. He can’t let JR get the upper hand twice now.
So, Rook repeats the trick, fueling his concentration into the rumble of the engine, the speed of the vehicle, and the full rotation, before sliding in alongside JR.
He finds himself looking at the other man intensely, trying to read him for any sign of a reaction to his trick.
He finds himself wishing to find a hint of admiration or perhaps a respect for their rivalry, JR remembering his name and accepting him as a worthy opponent.
He finds himself put off by his need for validation from the pathetic man. Rook slams his car door shut and storms into the plane.
***
This high up, the altitude must be messing up Knight’s brain. Waking up after a coma and immediately going back to mercenary work might not have been the brightest idea, but it was either that or staring at prison walls for the next thirty years.
The shaking of his seat is scrambling his thoughts. He looks over to Oliver and Pooter, who seem to be enjoying a cup of tea, nonchalantly discussing this or that. Pooter is probably used to planes, what with all her tours, and Oliver must have had plenty of missions that required long-distance travel.
“Get it together. You haven’t been a merc this long just to be humbled by turbulence,” Rook thought. He would probably have an easier time relaxing if not for the conspicuous stare, boring into the side of his head.
“Spit it out, Speed.”
“Wha?”
“Your brain’s cooking up its first thought since the ponies?”
“Man, what’s your problem? Ya still mad at me for winnin’ 5 years ago? I can’t help the fact that I’m a better racer than you.”
“You are not better than me.”
“Oh, yeah? My NOS Plus and the scar on your forehead are beggin’ to differ.”
In a flash, Rook was pressing JR up to his seat, his fist tight around the older man’s collar. JR’s eyes were wide with panic, his hands flailing out to his sides, trying to get out of the ruthless hold.
For a moment, Rook forgot that this was just a civilian, underneath all the flashy cars and pony murders.
“You are not better than me.” His face was inches away from JR’s. Rook could feel his heaving breath on his lips, the blue, wild eyes staring into his, begging for mercy.
For a moment, Rook could almost recognize them. The same wild passion for speed, the frenzy of a race, the adrenaline pumping, the sweetness of victory. All the highs and lows of a hobby Rook loathed and loved were encased in this man’s eyes. The eyes of a man once on top of the world, now at the mercy of Rook’s hands.
He let him go.
***
Rook couldn’t shake the feeling of those scorching eyes while they were the only ones left on the plane, plummeting straight to their death.
“The fuck are ya waitin’ for? Do it!” JR screams at him from his car, and he flies up into the air, before plunging into the unknown.
Rook couldn’t shake the feeling of those eyes on him, while they were landing in London, splitting up to seize T and Victor at once. It dawned on him that this might be the last he sees of them. His job comes with a high mortality rate, and getting attached just wasn’t a sustainable option.
He found himself looking for those eyes when they were splitting up. The fog in them has finally cleared. JR was running on adrenaline and fear, but something real was on the edge of the knife, something hidden by years of alcoholism and depression.
The eyes looked back at him. He hoped his own would blaze with something other than regret.